


"Just like old times."

by 1500birds



Series: Gay Disaster Angela Ziegler (Mercy-centric fics & studies) [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gun Violence, Not Shippy, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, mercy gets shrekked, the overwatch disaster children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1500birds/pseuds/1500birds
Summary: (In game, after getting a kill as mercy with a friendly McCree, he says, "Just like old times." This fic is inspired by that.)Angela refuses to use a firearm because she claims she doesn't need it, until one times she really does.





	"Just like old times."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strandedAeronaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strandedAeronaut/gifts).



> there are some references to some headcanons i have, so i'll list them here. you don't have to know them for this fic but i wanted them as an option
> 
> -angela and mccree were both fairly involved in overwatch as they grew up as prodigy children, just in different ways  
> -they're kind of close, and know a lot about each other's mental states bc of it  
> -their relationship's kind of weird bc they were absolutely terrible to each other in their youth, but they've forgiven each other and now theyre pretty protective of each other. like shitty siblings.  
> -angela smokes and also has a minor binge drinking problem  
> -they both have depression. mccree's is chronic; angela's is a result of stress and not taking care of herself.

            She’s only head of medicinal research for two months before Morrison says, “I’m putting you on a strike team. You’re going on a mission.”

            She does a double take, narrows her eyes at him like it’s some sort of trick. “I’m a civilian, Jack, I’m not cleared to go in the field.”

            The use of his first name instead of a title makes him tense his jaw but he doesn’t correct her. “You have now. We need those nanomachines on the front lines, and you’re the only one who can really use them. Besides, don’t think I don’t know about your Valkyrie project.”

            It’s her turn to clench her jaw, and she nods once before taking her leave.

 

* * *

 

            The mission is three days later, and when she shows up to the hangar for briefing, Jack’s waiting. He gives her a once over, nods to himself like she just confirmed something, and holds a pistol out to her.

            “You need this,” he says.

            “ _Absolutely not_ ,” she snaps back.

            His brows furrow up. “Yes, Angela. You can’t go into a fight without protection.”

            “I have protection, Jack, I have my team.”

            “That’s not enough. You could get separated from them- in a firefight, a million things can go wrong.”

            “No.” Angela crosses her arms, stares him down in a way no one else would dare to, an unforgiving glare that makes even him seem to shrink back. “I am a _doctor_ , Morrison, I will _not_ carry a firearm.”

            The use of his last name makes his eyes get a little colder, and Jack leans in to speak in a quiet growl- he knows the team is listening, even if they’re trying to look like they’re not. “You’re not setting a fucking foot on one of my ships unless you have some form of sidearm.”

            Angela doesn’t back down, but she looks away, turning her eyes to the weapon racks. Her eyes settle on something, and she strides over to pick it up. “I’ll take this.”

            “A taser isn’t-“

            “You said some form of sidearm, Commander, I’ve picked a nonlethal one.” She raises an eyebrow at him, challenges him to say no. She knows how much he needs her on this mission.

            “Fine,” he bites out, before turning and striding to the briefing map. She knows she’s won.

 

* * *

 

            It works fine- she’s active in the field, flying from target to target, keeping their soldiers alive. The casualty rate drops, and she never has to pull her taser.

            Until.

 

* * *

 

            The mission isn’t just standard Overwatch this time.

            She knows this because Reyes is there, and McCree is lounging in the back of the briefing room when she arrives.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Fixin’ to fly out- I suppose you’ll be havin’ my back now this time.”

            “I suppose so,” she agrees, and she sits next to him.

            “You’ve got a bit of ash on your shirt,” he whispers as Jack starts speaking.

            “You’ve got a bit of ash on your everywhere,” she hisses back. Jack glares at them both.

            This mission is a more brutal strike- it’s not omnics they’re up against, it’s insurgents. It’s not her first mission against human targets, but it is her first without any omnic factor. It’s just killing, even if they are terrorists.

 

 

            It goes great, at first.

            She keeps her team on their feet, stays on the back lines, always has a group with her to keep her safe as she heals.

            At first.

 

            Something goes wrong.

            Shit hits the fan quickly.

 

 

            She doesn’t know how she got separated, only knows that very suddenly her team isn’t there and she’s gripping her taser in one hand and her staff in the other, blood drying on her face and in her hair and she’s speaking into the radio, “ _This is Mercy, requesting immediate assistance at my location- I’m not entirely sure where-_ “

            Footsteps round the corner, and she turns towards them. The operative shoots, the bullet grazed her arm, she fires her taser back and he drops when the electricity hits him. She relents when her medical expertise tells her he should be down to stay.

            She kicks his handgun away from him before focusing on her arm- it’s not too bad, her nanomachines start stitching it up quickly, and soon there’s nothing but blood to show for it.

            Her eyes focus on the gun, and she hesitates before reaching for it. When her fingers brush the grip, she stops again.

            She swore she’d never wield one. She took an oath, to always help, never harm. It seems such a small, pathetic thing, on the ground, her hand half-poised to pick it up, harmless without a person to use it.

            She’s lost enough in thought that she doesn’t hear him get up until his boot hits a rock, and she whips her head around in time to see him pull the knife from it place on his hip.

            She grabs the gun without thinking, gets to her feet and aims it as he takes a step forward.

            He pauses, but maybe it’s clear in her eyes that she’s not a killer, or maybe it’s obvious in her grip and the shaking of her hands that she’s never held a gun before.

            He starts to advance, she fires, it goes wide. He moves a little faster, and she squeezes the trigger again, and again and again when he keeps coming, every shot missing until he’s upon her.

            She flings the gun to the side to throw her hands up in defense, the knife biting into her forearm. He slashes again, and when she dodges that he backhands her across the face. She keels over, gets pulled up by her hair so her can punch her once, twice in the gut before he lets go and she drops to the ground, hitting hard. When she tries to get back up, he kicks her in the abdomen, and she falls to her side, sputtering.

            She wasn’t trained for this. She doesn’t know how to fight, she’s a doctor, she was cleared without training and she never thought she’d need it, but here she is, and she knows she doesn’t stand a chance.

            Her eyes are watering, she can’t breathe through the blood coming out of her nose, and when she looks up, he has the gun aimed at her, and Angela Ziegler realizes she’s about to die.

            The tears spill out of her eyes, hot down her face, as she meets his eyes. There’s no hesitation in them, no mercy. All she wanted to do was save lives and now she’s crying and looking into the eyes of a man who’s ready to kill her.

            All she can think to say is “ _Please,_ ” and it comes out strangles and hoarse.

           

            The gunshot is deafening.

 

            She’s not dead.

 

            She must have closed her eyes because she has to open them to see the man crumpled on the ground.

 

            McCree lowers his gun and meets her eyes as she can feel her whole body shaking. She lasts two seconds before a sob forces its way out of her throat, and she covers her face with her hand as she cries and shakes and nanomachines start stitching together her forearm.

            For some reason, she feels humiliated for being caught is such a position, embarrassed that she’s on the ground crying after nearly being shot in the head. She doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that it’s _Jesse McCree_ there watching this happen. He’s seen her weak before- knows her secret smoking habit, caught her binge drinking before, but this is something else entirely.

            He gives her a few moments before he pulls a bandana out of his pocket and holds it out to her. “You need to pull herself together, doctor.” When she looks up at him, reaching out to take the bandana, he continues, “We’ve got wounded who need your help. Clean yourself up and let’s go.”

 

            She wipes the blood and tears off her face.

            She pulls herself together.

            She forces her hands to stop shaking, and she heals her team, and everyone gets out alive.

 

* * *

 

            Jack is furious when he finds out. He all but screams at her in debriefing, and she grits her teeth and bears it, because she knows he’s right. There’s no way for him to know what it was like without him having been there, but maybe he sees a little of it in the way she quietly accepts his rage, because he calms down and says, “We can talk more later. Get some rest.”

            She leaves having not said a single word to him.

            McCree watches her go, and she meets his eyes for half a second before looking back at the ground and walking a little faster.

 

* * *

          

            He finds her in the shooting range sometime after midnight. She doesn’t hear him enter, so Jesse only watches as she carefully raises the pistol, watched her hands shake as she just holds it, her muscles tensing like she’s trying her best to find the strength to aim it.

            He knows what it’s like. He’s come so close to death so many times, it feels almost like an old friend. It doesn’t faze him like it used to, doesn’t make his hands shake like that anymore.

            He waits for her to lower the gun again to move forward, this time making sure to make enough noise that she notices and turns.

            Taking the gun from her hands, he says, “I’ll teach ya how to use it.”

 

* * *

 

            They meet at least once a week after that, always around midnight, when the range is empty. Afterwards usually finds them smoking side by side in the shadow of the watchpoint, hands in pockets and eyes cast to the sky.

 

            She never has quite his aim, but after two months Angela Ziegler is one hell of a shot.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at 1500birds.tumblr.com (main blog) and b-v-w.tumblr.com (art blog) feel free to drop a line
> 
> constructive feedback is GREATLY appreciated and pls dont be afraid to point out errors


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